


Mistletoe

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:18:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lad never seems to get what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> I realised recently that I never write anything short or happy. Here is something short and mostly happy.

Thursday tries not to work late on Christmas Eve, but sometimes it’s the price to be paid for a holiday the next day. By the time he’s ready to go, the CID office has long since emptied out, released early by Bright following longstanding tradition. Only Morse is still lingering on the thin pretense of some unfinished typing; Thursday hasn’t heard anything from his bagman’s machine in some time. They both know he’s waiting to drive Thursday home: Morse has never yet given up his role as Thursday’s driver, except when superseded by Jakes. Thursday shakes his head; the lad’s not yet thirty, and already completely ruled by his job.

Thursday pulls on his hat and coat, flicks off the light in his office and steps into the doorway. And stops.

Someone’s decorated the CID office. Not extensively, but fir boughs and red ribbon have been hung along the sides of desks and the top of the glass partition separating the main office-space. It happens most years, of course, but today he was too caught up in his paper-work to notice it. He stares, a little overwhelmed by the sudden unexpected transformation, and then shakes his head. 

Morse is ready to go, his coat already donned and his desk light off. He’s standing halfway to the door, staring up at something hanging from the ceiling. Thursday frowns, shutting the door to his office behind him, and Morse jumps at the sound, swivelling. 

“Is that –” he waves at the small bunch of leaves and berries.

“Mistletoe,” says Morse, voice curiously low.

“Someone’s been victimizing the WPCs,” sighs Thursday. “Happens every year. Stoddart, I expect. Cut it down, would you? The rest of it can stay,” he adds, glancing around. It’s technically unprofessional, he supposes, but it’s only for a couple of days, and it’s a nice thought for those poor buggers stuck with the Christmas shift.

Morse strides past him to his desk without meeting Thursday’s eyes to pick up his scissors. At close range, it’s strikingly apparent that the constable’s ears are burning red, his cheeks not far behind. “Or was it you?” asks Thursday, good-naturedly, as Morse pulls open a drawer.

Morse glances back over his shoulder with such a wretched look of anguish that Thursday’s breath catches in his throat. 

“No, sir, it wasn’t me,” he says quietly, picking out the scissors and shutting the drawer. He hurries back across the floor, eyes once again averted from Thursday’s gaze.

Of course it wasn’t. There aren’t any WPCs lurking about. There’s only one person in the office tonight – one person Morse chose to wait for, as he always does, rather than pursuing an afternoon of freedom. And for what – a smile, a kind word? Or…

He follows Morse, and as the lad raises his hand with the scissors, raises his own and takes hold of it. Morse turns, wide-eyed, and pulls in a shocked breath. They’re only inches apart, and this close he can read the whole story in Morse’s eyes – the fear, the uncertainty, the desire. 

_Well detected, Fred_ , thinks Thursday, sourly. _And how long has your own bagman been breaking his heart over you without your noticing?_

“I can’t be what you want of me, lad,” he says, carefully. “I’m sorry.”

Morse tries to shy away, shaking his head. “No – I know. I didn’t mean – I never thought – I’m sorry, sir,” he finishes, miserably, twisting himself away.

Thursday takes the scissors from him and releases his hand. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.” 

And then partly because Morse looks so miserable, and partly because the lad never seems to get what he wants, and partly because hell, it’s Christmas Eve, Thursday leans in and presses a very chaste kiss against Morse’s lips. Morse stands absolutely still, as if being presented with some fragile honour, his eyes slipping shut after a moment. 

Only when Thursday rises does he slump away, blinking, to rest his hip against the nearest desk and stand there catching his breath. Thursday wonders if this might have been a mistake, but at the sight of Morse’s heartfelt smile he can’t really regret it.

“You need to find someone more worthy of your affections, as they used to say in my grandma’s day,” says Thursday. Morse gives him a very old look.

“I’ll start in the New Year, sir,” he replies, dryly.

Thursday rolls his eyes, but nods towards the door. “On you go, then. Time’s getting on.”

Morse blinks, apparently just remembering about the existence of the outside world. It’s no wonder he has no one else in his life, some days. 

Thursday lets Morse get a few paces ahead, then quietly snips down the mistletoe on his way out.


End file.
